


Between Breaths

by avawtsn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Blow Jobs, Blowjobs, Breathplay, Choking, Deepthroating, Don't Try This At Home, Established Relationship, FaceFucking, Fingerfucking, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, a little bit of rimming anyway, abuse of italics and drama queen emphasis on everything going on in Sherlock's head, adverse effects of snogging on consulting detectives, not so much dubcon as complete lack of discussion beforehand, possible dubcon, post-case horny haze all around, removal of spearmint from one's flatmate, seriously so much sucking cock, you'd think Sherlock was the one with the oral fixation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avawtsn/pseuds/avawtsn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds out how much he likes choking on John's cock. Unabashed PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Breaths

**Author's Note:**

> Just a PWP I started that got a bit out of hand -- I wrote in essentially everything but anal sex somehow. Banged out in about two days. Unbetaed, unbritpicked, minimally self-edited, so I hope it's coherent...?
> 
> Notes at the end for safety disclaimers. (But essentially: don't try this at home, kids.)

The door to 221B opens to the inside; it’s important.

John’s tongue tastes of spearmint, quickly fading the longer Sherlock licks it out of his mouth. Normally Sherlock would have gone in for the distraction, he being the better actor, but that gum-smacking ginger receptionist -- insipid name deleted -- had an obvious thing for older men and Sherlock couldn’t make it work in time. By the time Sherlock lifted her bottle of hand lotion and replaced it with one without smuggled diamonds in it, John had been backed up onto her desk with a tongue down his throat. A victim of incompetent kissing and daddy issues all around.

When they arrive back at Baker Street and Sherlock starts to lay his claim in the foyer of 221B, John _laughs_.

“Jealous, are we?” John’s breath, warm and vaguely minty, huffs against his open mouth and it isn’t enough. _It isn’t enough._

Sherlock brackets his hands around John’s face and tilts his mouth up for another kiss. He licks John’s lower lip into his mouth and bites it, reminds himself not to chew too hard, but there are places he needs to be and not enough time in the world to get there.

John’s hands roam under the Belstaff, one to cup Sherlock’s arse and one up the back of his shirt to press them closer. Sherlock slides his thigh between John’s legs and presses in against his erection, needing to feel it, the heat and weight of it, the shape of it constrained inside John’s jeans and pressed by necessity to the side. John lets out a soft moan and starts rutting against his leg like he can’t help it. His jacket against the textured wallpaper makes a satisfying susurrus as he moves. Sherlock wants so much to sit and savour John wanting him to the point of rutting, to sit back and do nothing more than grin _wickedly_ , but that won’t do; too far, too much distance. Sherlock tilts his head and fits their mouths together so he can lick deeper, press harder. The coat, his shirt, John’s jeans, their clothes, it’s all fog when all Sherlock wants is _heat_.

“Upstairs,” Sherlock growls, releasing John’s face to undo his own shirt buttons. “Now.” He catches John’s cocked eyebrow before spinning and flying up the stairs.

Sherlock is four buttons and one Belstaff down when John finally enters the flat proper. Slow, too _slow_. He crowds John right back into the front door of 221B, their teeth clacking in a bruising, sloppy kiss, fingers going to undo John’s flies. The door to the flat opens in and, now shut, stands solid as something John can safely lean against as Sherlock pulls down his jeans and pants to mid-thigh. When John’s cock is free, Sherlock releases the kiss and drops to his knees in front of him.

“I should snog suspects more often, _Jesus_ ,” John gasps out the blasphemy as Sherlock swallows down most of John’s cock in one go, one hand at the base of the shaft to help ease back his foreskin. The length of him is warm and firm, gratifyingly pulsing in rhythm to John’s gasps above. Fingers fly to Sherlock’s curls but don’t tighten in them, not yet. John lifts his hips off the door to push into his mouth more, almost thoughtless but still polite, asking permission, and Sherlock obliges, opening his mouth wider.

Looking up, Sherlock catches John’s eye. He knows exactly how much John enjoys seeing his lips press and spread as he strains to keep teeth away from his cock. He adds actual suction as he pulls back, hollowing his cheeks to the extent possible with John’s thick girth filling his mouth. John lets out something very close to a whimper.

Sherlock shoves John’s pelvis back with both hands so he is flush against the door, cock briefly sliding halfway out of his mouth before he follows it again. He tongues the space between foreskin and glans, brazen and rough over the frenulum, taking John’s cock in up to his fist and then releasing his hand. John breaks eye contact then, half doubled over as Sherlock slides his cock in all the way in, lips pressed against flesh, nose nuzzled into hair. John’s cock presses past the wet musculature of Sherlock's tongue and into his throat. One of John’s hands grips Sherlock by the shoulder for balance. This hand tightens its hold on Sherlock’s flesh, almost painful, and the other hand grips his hair tighter in sympathy. Better.

Sherlock stays his left hand against John’s hip, holding him flush against the door, while his right hand goes to undo the strain of his own trousers. He gets as far as undoing his belt and flies, but his bespoke trousers are too tight around the thighs and buttocks with his being on his knees like this, weight rested back on his feet. Sherlock simply rubs up and down the length of his trapped cock in time to the wet slides of his mouth along John’s shaft.

Sherlock drags his tongue in long, broad strokes along the underside and up the firm sides of John’s cock, finishing the pass with a swirl around the tip where John’s leaking properly for him now. Sherlock’s dizzy with it, doesn’t know whether the fingers grappling his hair feel better or rubbing his own cock through his trousers does. If John’s leg were propped farther from the door, he could have _that_ between his legs so he could rut properly against that, Sherlock contemplates with some measure of desperation.

“Sher--Sherlock, I can’t,” John gasps out. Sherlock looks up, and John is beautifully flushed, mouth softly agape, chest heaving with the effort to suck down oxygen. “I won’t last if you keep that up. We have to--”

Sherlock ignores him. He doesn’t interrupt, but he brings himself up to his knees proper, swallowing down John’s cock to the root again. He feels every millimeter of it slipping past the back of his throat and closes his eyes to really focus on being in his body just now: the firmness telegraphing how close to orgasm John is, the girth that’s nearly too much for Sherlock’s mouth, the beginnings of that soreness in the back of his throat he’s going to feel tomorrow. Deep throating is harder in this position, Sherlock full on his knees with John standing, but it prickles a certain smug pride in his gut: Sherlock Holmes has never shied away from difficult. No, Sherlock doesn’t interrupt, but John stops speaking on his own, which pleases him so much he could _purr_. John’s fingers grip tight in his locks and pull Sherlock back a bit.

“Shhherlock, I mean it, _Christ_ , your mouth.” John is at the stage at which he slurs out his name. Gorgeous.

John pulls Sherlock up and off by his shirt, still catching his breath. “Bedroom. Bedroom, now.” John shucks his jeans and pants there in the living room and walks, cock bobbing, through the kitchen to Sherlock’s bedroom. He doesn’t look back.

Sherlock rises to his feet, thighs distantly aching. He considers undoing the remaining buttons on his shirt, shucking his trousers and pants as well, but he leaves it for John since that’s what John wants: time to edge away from climax, time to unwrap him, savour it a bit. Sherlock is impatient, but what John wants Sherlock will make sure he gets. His cock throbs at the thought. He follows to the bedroom.

Inside, John is on the bed, pulling off his button-down shirt and vest over his head, buttons be damned. Sherlock waits at the door until he’s properly naked before crossing to the bed.

John’s cock is flushed and still wet, pulsing slightly as he sits back on the pillows. Sherlock looks at it with hunger churning in his gut and swallows, the low ache in his throat spiking satisfyingly as he does.

Sherlock stops at the edge of the bed where John rises to meet him, hands outstretched to soothe Sherlock’s greedy skin. He looks beyond debauched, he knows, can see the effect of it on John’s pupils, his cock. Curls in unspeakable disarray; trousers hanging on only by virtue of their tightness and Sherlock’s conspicuous erection tenting them in front; shirt wrinkled, possibly ruined, falling open to reveal his flushed chest except where two measly buttons remain fastened, defying all reason. He’s a present like this, he knows, one for only John to unwrap. He licks his lips and waits.

John eases his hand into Sherlock’s half-open shirt and around his waist, dips his fingers possessively into the small of Sherlock’s back, no regard for the buttons straining at the bottom of the shirt. With the fabric pulled to the side, John brings himself up on his knees on the bed and brings his head to Sherlock’s chest. There’s a pink flash of John’s tongue before he feels his nipple sucked into John’s mouth, wet and warmth and bright electricity. John’s other hand hooks onto the belt of Sherlock’s trousers and tugs downward, careful to manoeuvre the belt buckle away from Sherlock’s straining cock.

John’s hands work slowly, deliberately, working on their own timetable, while his tongue lathes mercilessly on his nipple. John’s savouring this, sometimes pulling back to let his nipple cool and then following up with a hard suck that empties Sherlock’s lungs of air. Sherlock groans helplessly, abruptly weak on his feet as the sensations from John’s mouth and the protests of Sherlock’s cock try to communicate by electrical impulse somewhere in the middle.

Sherlock’s shirt buttons give somehow, so he discards the shirt on the floor beside the bed. He is still standing, John attached to him by one dazzlingly talented mouth and one excruciatingly gentle hand, now moving to cup his bollocks rather than go directly to his cock. Sherlock swallows down a moan and runs his fingers through John’s gold and ash hair, as utterly unsure now what to do with himself as the first time they fell into bed together. He wants to push, wants to pull, wants to be taken, wants to drown.

John’s other hand finishes tugging Sherlock’s trousers and pants down, letting them drop once they fall past his thighs. The gust of cool air and Sherlock’s own impatience with John’s soft caresses sends a whine through him, a visceral need to curl into John’s body so much he’s shaking for it. John pulls off his attentions from Sherlock’s nipple, burning cold and crackling fire now.

“Let me…” John trails off as he positions himself on his stomach on the bed to get at Sherlock’s cock. John’s breath falls on Sherlock’s bollocks as he gets close and Sherlock reaches for the bed to steady himself.

“I,” Sherlock swallows. “I don’t think I can stand much longer and -- definitely not if you do _that_.”

John smirks and tugs him by the wrists to the bed. It’s a mercy of John’s that he doesn’t take the teasing farther when he obviously could; Sherlock has no idea how he got from the ginger receptionist to here; from John pulling off because he was too close to orgasm to Sherlock too unsteady to remain standing on his feet. Sherlock spills sloppily next to John on the bed and lets himself be arranged however John likes.

They wind up lying in opposite directions, Sherlock’s cock straining inches from John’s face, John’s crotch near Sherlock’s face. John propped up on one elbow, one hand thrown over Sherlock’s abdomen as he ghosts the pads of his fingertips over Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock doesn’t know where to look. But the decision slips out of his hands when John closes in the remaining inches to take the head of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, and Sherlock’s eyes slide shut.

John tips the head of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, hand gripped lightly around the shaft. John’s tongue -- Sherlock’s nipples clench in memory -- circles the glans inside of Sherlock’s foreskin, swirling and pressing against the the underside, the frenulum, until Sherlock’s toes curl. John adjusts his position and tightens his lips around the cock in his mouth, forming a tight seal that sends Sherlock gasping, eyes flying back open without quite seeing a thing.

Emboldened, John moves his body up and over Sherlock’s. He holds himself with both arms on either side of the body underneath him, propped up over Sherlock’s cock so he’s better positioned to take it into his mouth. His leg swings over Sherlock’s chest, knee planting just by his shoulder. That leaves John’s heavy cock bobbing just near Sherlock’s mouth, just slightly below his chin. Sherlock stares and stares at it, mouth watering, as he feels his own cock slip inch by inch into the wet heat of John’s mouth. Sherlock moans, can’t be bothered to adjust for volume, for _modesty_. He is feverish for this, just this; thirsty, needy, aching, shivering.

Entirely of their own volition, Sherlock’s hands rise and grip John’s hips, position him over Sherlock’s mouth properly and then guide him down. John goes willingly, knees spreading and sliding on the bed sheets to get lower, even as his mouth comes mostly off Sherlock’s cock a bit in the process. Sherlock cups the swell of John’s arse and presses _down_ , pushing the head of John’s thick cock well past his stretched lips and to the back of his mouth. John _moans_ around the head of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth like there isn’t anyone around to hear in a square mile, sending vibrations that speak directly to the liquid heat at Sherlock’s centre. John pulls off, gasping, slamming his fist into the mattress, and Sherlock fights to keep from coming right then and there.

Sherlock can feel John nudging his legs apart, so he lets his knees fall to the side, feet dangling off the bed. And then a slicked up finger -- spit, lube, he can’t be bothered to figure out what or how or when -- circle the entrance to his hole. Sherlock keens into the touch, every fiber of his being trying to bend into John, presenting itself for John to touch, for him to have.

John shifts forward, down Sherlock’s body, replacing his mouth with his hand as he licks Sherlock’s ballsack and down to his perineum, tongue dangerously close to where John’s finger’s breached him. The movement pulls John’s cock out of Sherlock’s mouth, which leaves him, Sherlock finds, free to moan freely, wanton and incoherent. He writhes, spine arching, as John nuzzles his face into him and _breathes deep_.

“God, you --” he can hear John murmur, hot breaths around his bollocks that send sparks to the base of Sherlock’s spine. “Can--cannot get enough -- of you.”

John breathes him in again like he’s life itself, and Sherlock turns lightheaded in the span of a few heartbeats. And then John removes his finger, points his tongue and pushes _in_ , body bending at the waist to get the right angle. His nose nuzzles deep into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, his hand firmly but jerkily stroking Sherlock’s cock all the while. Sherlock keens, whimpering, bucking helplessly into John’s face. John gets a hand around Sherlock to cup an arse cheek from underneath, pressing him closer. John’s tongue laps and digs _in_ , while his four fingers fan over the glans of Sherlock’s cock, smearing pre-come over the head and along the top of his foreskin.

Sherlock can barely breathe, is gasping for air and feeling so flushed with blood his vision is going dark at the periphery. Everything is John, everywhere, every nerve ending, every cellular combustion in his body singing, screaming. Sherlock’s vision tips up at the cock hanging comically over him, and Sherlock doesn’t think, just reaches out and pushes it down, back into his mouth til no more fits. His eyes fall shut and he moans around it, every atom burning behind his eyelids.

The hand stutters on Sherlock’s cock and a moan bordering on a yell escapes John. This, what they’re doing, it’s evidently a tug of war, and John’s pulled off once again from Sherlock this round. His mouth is off Sherlock now, gasping for air and fighting for coherence, so John inserts his finger again, and this time it slips even more easily into him. The finger slips in, pumping just so, and then crooks just _slightly_ against Sherlock’s prostate. For a moment, Sherlock can hear every cell in his nervous system hissing, and it feels like nothing more than autonomic impulse for Sherlock to take hold of John’s hips and shove John’s cock all the way down his throat. Hands on John’s bum to hold his cock deep inside, Sherlock holds him there until he chokes, absolutely needs the air, fingers digging into the flesh of John’s arse.

Something seems to stretch to breaking in John, like Sherlock’s won the battle, possibly the war. The finger stays crooked inside Sherlock, bed shaking with John’s efforts to keep it in, while John’s hips pump down and into Sherlock’s mouth on near autopilot. Sherlock is so aroused he can’t _think_. And then John’s cock pushes past the back of his mouth and into his throat, cutting off his windpipe and airflow until John lifts up again. This, this hasn’t happened before, but they so rarely get into this position, apparently have never been in this _exact_ position, and the thought sends a pointed throb straight to Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock’s moans, beyond any measure of control now, dampen noticeably when John pushes in, and resume at full volume when he pulls out. It’s humiliating and obvious and Sherlock has never been harder in his life. The pump of John’s hips speeds up, and now, _now_ , it feels like John’s let go. His cock is in Sherlock’s throat, blocking airflow and fucking his face like it’s the only thing John needs right now, the only thing he could _possibly_ be doing right now. Sherlock’s eyes open, but he keeps his hands on John’s arse, helping him thrust in and out of his mouth.

He can feel his eyes water, and it’s different from simply hitting his gag reflex, which he’s largely trained himself out of in most positions. But in this, with John: supine, helpless, half choking on John’s cock, literally unable to breathe in or out except around when John’s pulling back to thrust back in -- in this, Sherlock’s eyes are watering, vision blurring like it never has with deep throating. Lightheaded, vision nearly black, he registers that foamy saliva is trickling down his chin, down his cheeks, but all he does is knead the ample arse cheeks in his hands. John isn’t even touching him properly anymore, just thrusting like an animal into Sherlock’s throat. If he’s making noise, Sherlock can’t hear it over the sloshing thrum of John fucking him, pushing his head into the mattress. Everything slows, like he’s underwater; it’s all of Sherlock’s concentration to keep his mouth open to accommodate John’s cock and to gulp down air around it.

Distantly, Sherlock registers John’s cock thicken even further in his mouth and then John’s rhythm falter, speed up. John thrusts more shallowly for a moment, which lets Sherlock catch up on breathing. Or, it should, but instead Sherlock closes his mouth around John’s cock and _sucks_.

John stills, grunting loudly, and god if it doesn’t feel like a _gift_ , one that Sherlock’s worked hard to wring out of him. His hand comes to a stop on Sherlock’s cock, gripping it so tightly Sherlock almost sees stars, and with a final push into Sherlock’s mouth, he comes. The first couple spurts are in Sherlock’s throat, so it’s only a dim impression of orgasm, but then John pulls slightly out, as if remembering, and his last few pulses fill the back of Sherlock’s mouth with come. Sherlock chokes slightly and swallows thickly, coughing to recover himself as John rolls off him to the side. John’s finger slips out of him unceremoniously.

“S-sorry, oh my god, I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John says, sitting up to look at Sherlock. “Ssshit, I--I don’t know what--”

Sherlock’s coughs die down and he half sits up, propped up on his elbows. His lips feel rubbery, his jaw aches like seven hells, and his throat burns in a strange new way. And, as he sits up, he realises how wet his face is -- not with semen, but saliva and tears and sweat. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sighs, sucking in as much air as his lungs can manage.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is a baritone croak, whisper thin. John has fucked him _hoarse_.

John’s eyes grow large in alarm. “Oh my god, _Jesus_ , Sherlock, what did I do to you? Christ, I’m--I’m so sorry, I don’t know what--fuck, I--”

“John,” Sherlock repeats, voice barely louder than before. “I wanted it. I wanted that. I wanted you to want that.”

John blinks, still looking unsure.

“I may not have… _known_ that I’d wanted it until I had it,” Sherlock admits. “But I’ve--I’ve never been so turned on in all my life,” he finishes. He gestures to his cock, which is still standing at attention, shining red and glistening. John turns to look and then looks back at Sherlock.

“But your voice…”

“Will recover.”

“You look like a _mess_.”

“I never look anything I don’t want to look.”

“You do a bit.” John finally cracks a smile.

“I do _not_.”

“You do too, you wanker.”

“John,” Sherlock says in mock hurt, voice finally recovering some normalcy. “Surely you wouldn’t make me resort to _that_.”

John smiles, almost predatory. Better.

John reaches out his hand to Sherlock’s face and wipes away some of the trails of saliva and tears. “And what _would_ you like to resort to?” This time, it’s John who gestures toward Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock shifts up on the bed and stacks all the pillows against the headboard before leaning back on them. John follows, sitting to one side, patient.

“Touch me,” Sherlock directs.

John contemplates Sherlock’s cock, absentmindedly licking his lips. He detours to the nightstand drawer for a bottle of lube and then crawls back to Sherlock, settling between his legs. He puts a dollop of gel onto the pads of two finger and leans down, head poised over Sherlock’s waiting cock. Before he sets to touching Sherlock at all though, he looks up and meets Sherlock’s eyes, something of a grin working its way into his face.

“Tonight, if you please,” Sherlock adds through gritted teeth. He bites the inside of his cheek as John’s grin grows positively lascivious.

John breaks eye contact to look down at Sherlock’s bobbing cock. Sherlock can see just the wet tip of John’s tongue before he feels it edge his foreskin out of the way, licking around the head of his cock so lightly Sherlock grips the sheets in his fists.

“Nuh uh,” John says, touching his slicked up finger to Sherlock’s hole. “You’ll want to relax.”

“You’ll,” Sherlock swallows. “Want to -- get on with it. Then.”

John’s finger circles the pucker, leaving cooling wetness in its wake. Every muscle seems to tremble before John slides his finger in, smooth and confident and perfect. Sherlock exhales, long and tremulously.

John mouths Sherlock’s glans, brushing the broad side of his tongue against the underside and then bobbing his head over it so Sherlock can feel the seal of his lips over the coronal ridge. Despite orders to the contrary, Sherlock renews his grip on the bedspread, gasping when he feels John crook his finger upward to press against his prostate.

“Mmm,” John hums around his cock before pulling off. “So impatient.” He smiles up at Sherlock again before fisting downward Sherlock’s foreskin and slipping his cock into his mouth again.

Sherlock writhes under John’s touch, under his tongue and the heat of his mouth and the intrusion of his finger that’s pressing up against Sherlock so perfectly he could cry. Instinctively, one hand lifts from the bed sheets and forms a fist he can bite, something he can shove into his mouth so he can have a barrier between the moans threatening to escape and the open air of the bedroom.

“Mmm,” John pulls off again. “Hand down. I want to hear you.” John’s commander voice, his _Captain_ voice.

“J-John,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t even know why he’s talking, what he’s saying. “ _John_ ,” he repeats as John slips a second finger in and takes his cock back into his mouth.

“M-my god, I--I can’t--if you--” Sherlock is babbling, hoarse still and babbling. He can’t help it, it’s just drek spilling from his mouth. “My v-voice is still -- because you --”

John moans around Sherlock’s cock and presses _in_ against his screaming prostate, taking in Sherlock’s cock up to the ring of thumb and forefinger where his hand is fisted around it, and that’s it, Sherlock freezes, neck straining, body wanting to curl into John’s. He comes so hard he thinks he’s lost vision, gasping almost in tandem with the pulses of his cock. John pulls off, fisting Sherlock’s cock through the aftershocks, hand becoming gentler and gentler until it finally stills completely. Long stripes of semen cover the light hairs of his lower abdomen and the tops of his thighs when Sherlock finally opens his eyes, and John is placing light kisses around the base of Sherlock’s cock. Reverent, careful, loving. Delicately, John extricates his fingers from Sherlock as he lays down kisses.

“You okay, love?” he asks.

Sherlock, catching his breath still, only nods.

John gets up from the bed and heads to the bathroom. He returns with a flannel and goes about cleaning up Sherlock with a content smirk on his face.

“So, yes to snogging suspects more often then?”

Sherlock growls a little. “John, if you so much as --”

John shuts him up with a kiss. He tastes nothing like spearmint, which is perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you thought. I haven't published male/male slash before (somehow? I started with it but wound up publishing femslash first), so I'd love to know if you liked it. Leave a comment here or find me on tumblr at [avawatson](http://avawatson.tumblr.com) and drop me an ask (anons being fine).
> 
> About any safety issues: Sherlock, as I've written him here, loves getting choked -- or he finds out he does anyway. And it's not in a BDSM context the way that I've read most choking fics. There are no safe words or precautions taken and Sherlock doesn't discuss any of this with John beforehand. And to top it all off, Sherlock gets off on pushing John to the point of desperation. So while I don't consider this dubcon, it's not what I'd call particularly "safe" sex. But it's PWP, so I hope you just enjoy it for what it is -- and don't try activities that involve choking without taking precautions and doing research.


End file.
